Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

One Month Later

W hat a waste of a favor.

It was finally time to give up hope, then. Beatrice’s wedding day dawned bright and clear. There had been something of a dry spell in the Season’s marriages of late, so her wedding was considered likely to draw out a large crowd. The church would be full to bursting, and almost all of the invitations to the wedding breakfast had been accepted.

There had been a few rather poisonous comments about Beatrice getting married before other, more fashionably beautiful ladies, and she ignored them as best she could.

I would change places with you if I could.

Her wedding dress should comfort those unmarried women. It was so very ugly.

“I’m not sure I like the sleeves,” her father commented, a tinge of anxiety in his voice. Horatio Haversham, the Viscount Darnley, was a man with remarkably poor health—gout, indigestion, a weak back, frequent megrims, and so on. Perhaps his poor health could be attributed to their recent run of bad luck in business. “The Marquess designed all of this, of course. I did think it was nice, a gentleman choosing his wife’s wedding dress, but now I’m not sure he thought it through at all.”

Beatrice bit the inside of her cheek. “It doesn’t matter, Papa.”

Her gown was, objectively, ugly. It was clearly cut to fit the willowy, fashionable figures of Society, simply made in a larger size. It flattened her bosom, emphasizing the plumpness of her waist and her arms, while managing to hide the curves she was proud of, like her hips. Remarkable, really.

And, of course, the sickly shade of ivory seemed to drain her of color, making even her red hair seem less vibrant.

He chose the ugliest dress he could find, she thought, with a sudden rush of almost hysterical laughter. And because it’s fashionable, he can plead ignorance when I look truly awful.

The Viscount got up, shuffling painfully across the room, and laid a hand carefully on Beatrice’s shoulder.

“This marriage is for the best, you know. The Marquess is a decent man, and with this deal, I shall soon restore our fortune. He didn’t even mind that your dowry was reduced, you know. Or that you are… well, a little older than some of the other ladies.”

Beatrice bit her lip, tasting copper, and said nothing.

They had argued about this, over and over again. Of course, Beatrice was of age, and could not be forced into anything. But there was no denying that a series of bad investments had eroded their fortune, a fact carefully hidden from the rest of Society. The world was unforgiving towards rich men who lost their money.

The Marquess was a rich enough man, but he was no businessman. He needed Horatio’s experience, good name, and advice. And, in exchange, he must marry Horatio’s second daughter.

No, his oldest daughter, now.

Beatrice closed her eyes briefly, swallowing back the agonizing wave of grief.

Tears won’t bring her back.

Jane would have been horrified at Beatrice forcing herself into marriage and going along with it all. But Jane was not here. She couldn’t see how broken they all were, the pain that lingered between them every hour, every moment. Beatrice simply could not hurt them further by digging in her heels.

If a scandal involving the Marquess were to simply surface , however, that was a different matter altogether.

“You seemed a little happier about the idea in recent weeks,” Horatio added, mustering a small smile. “Ever since the engagement was announced. Have you made your peace with all this at last?”

Yes, because I believed that I’d enlisted the help of a man who would save me.

“I suppose I am getting used to the idea, Papa,” she answered listlessly.

Because I am an idiot. Oh, what was I thinking? I have wasted the last month waiting around for a knight in shining armor to ride along and rescue me. Serves me right for relying on a man.

“Haven’t you any flowers?” Horatio asked, glancing around. “You are not having any bridesmaids, are you?”

“No, Papa, I am not. And I don’t need flowers.”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Dully, Beatrice met his eyes through the mirror. He dropped his gaze first.

“Well, I think it’s time to go, my dear. Shall we go downstairs?”

Beatrice said nothing.

The walk from Haversham House to the church was a short one. Beatrice wished with all her heart that it was longer. But then, what was the point of that? She would only have to suffer longer. Why not get it over with?

Helena Haversham, the Viscountess, walked silently along with them. She resembled Beatrice in coloring, with pale skin and vibrant reddish-gold hair. Beatrice’s plump form and need for spectacles came directly from her father, however.

In recent months, life seemed to have been leached out of Helena. Even now, she seemed to move like a puppet with the strings cut, staring straight ahead, without a single word to say on the day of her daughter’s wedding.

Helena had not agreed to the match, but Horatio overruled her.

I should have fought harder, Beatrice thought, with a twinge of regret.

They approached the church, which was full to the brim. The world swam oddly around Beatrice, things coming in and out of focus.

I’m getting married. I’m marrying him. Nobody came to help me, after all.

“Horatio, go inside,” Helena said abruptly, her voice the same tired monotone she’d used since they buried Jane.

Horatio blinked. “I’m walking our daughter down the aisle, dear.”

“I shall walk her down.”

“Well, that’s not how it’s done. Really…”

Helena turned blank eyes on her husband. “I have said that I will do it. Go inside, Horatio.”

There was a second or two of tangible tension in the air, with Beatrice stuck between them.

Horatio dropped his gaze first. “Well, well, as you like. It’ll look strange, though. The gossips will talk.”

“Let them talk.”

He slipped inside the church, giving Beatrice a glimpse of crammed pews, all the guests craning their necks to get a glimpse of the bride. She felt sick.

“Beatrice,” Helena said quietly. “Look at me.”

Beatrice obeyed. “Mama?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

There was a short silence. Beatrice bit her lip, glancing away.

“Our fortune?—”

“Enough about that,” Helena interrupted. “Enough about your father’s business deals. I should have fought harder against all of this. It’s just… oh, my darling girl, I have been so tired. You lost your sister, and I lost my daughter, my oldest child. My first baby, my first child that I cradled in my arms. I have not been a good mother.”

“You are a good mother.”

Helena reached out, tucking a strand of copper hair behind her daughter’s ear. “We could walk away. Right this moment, we could walk away.”

Beatrice allowed herself to imagine it. Just for a moment. She shook her head.

“We would likely be ruined if I did that. Papa would never forgive me for the humiliation. My reputation would never recover, either. I would never marry—who would marry a runaway bride?—and what about John’s future?”

At the mention of her third child, her son, Helena’s eyes fluttered shut.

“We should never have allowed it to get this far.”

Beatrice felt as if she were in a dream.

“But we did. And now I am here, and I must go through with it, Mama.”

Helena was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. “If you are sure.”

Sure? Of course, I am sure! Sure that I’ll be purely miserable with that wretch. Sure that I put my trust in the wrong man. Sure that I’ll live with regret for the rest of my life.

Swallowing down bile, Beatrice turned away and pushed open the door. She began to walk down the aisle by herself, not waiting for Helena to catch up with her.

A few familiar faces stood out to Beatrice as she passed. She saw the anxious face of her old friend, Anna, and thought guiltily of her unanswered letters and notes, getting increasingly more desperate.

I should have asked Anna for help. Too late now.

Anna’s husband, Theodore, sat beside her, which made Beatrice think of his friend, the Duke of Blackwood. A wave of anger shot through her. She couldn’t spot the Duke in the crowd.

I daresay he was too cowardly to turn up.

There were other friends and acquaintances in the crowd. Doubtless, a couple of the guests would be anonymous gossip column writers, keen to get more material for their next articles. Beatrice was well aware that her dress hugged her in all the wrong places, and that there was no way to hide the unflattering cut and color from staring, prying eyes.

Her maid, bless her, had done her best to style her hair in a flattering way, as if that would mitigate the awful effect of the wretched dress. It was piled on top of her head, long curls hanging down around her face and neck, glittering with tiny glass flowers pinned here and there.

Nobody was looking at her hair, though. Eyes raked up and down her form. Some people looked sympathetic, probably imagining that Beatrice was a silly girl who wanted to wear a fashionably cut dress without realizing that it did not suit her at all.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to care.

Beatrice searched for one particular, familiar face, but it seemed that Edward was not there. The Duke of Thornbridge was likely still sequestered in his house, grieving the death of his wife. Beatrice thought briefly about the baby and felt a pang of pity.

She wondered what was happening to the baby, her nephew, the one who had killed Jane. Rumor had it that Edward was becoming quite the recluse. She might have worried about him if she wasn’t so busy saving all of her worry for herself.

And then, at the top of the aisle, waiting by the altar, was the Marquess himself.

He was generally considered a plain man, of average height and a powerful build, with thinning brown hair and narrow, unpleasant eyes. He was ambitious to a fault, severe, and unforgiving. There were rumors about him killing men in duels, and many stories about a fiery, terrifying temper. Beatrice had met him before, naturally, and had not been impressed.

He smiled tightly at her as she came to stand beside him.

“You are late.”

“It is a bride’s right to be a little late on her wedding day, I believe,” she responded.

“And I believe that a wife is meant to obey her husband. We shall start as we mean to go on, I think.”

She clenched her jaw. “You do not own me, Sir.”

“Not yet. The ceremony hasn’t even begun. By the way, I think that dress is a little tight on your arms, my dear,” he remarked, his voice low so that the congregation could not hear.

The vicar did hear, however, and shot him a disapproving look. The Marquess ignored the look.

A couple of sharp, cutting retorts sprang to the tip of Beatrice’s tongue—mostly concerning his high forehead and receding hairline—but she bit them back.

I’m going to marry this man, she thought, fear sweeping dizzily over her. I’m going to have to bed him. Tonight. What on earth is that going to be like?

She risked another glance at him, the feeling of nausea getting worse. The answer presented itself at once, clear and plain and sickening.

Awful. It’s going to be awful. And probably painful.

He’ll want children. Lots of them.

“Dearly beloved,” the vicar began, casting a quelling gaze at the congregation. The chatter died down. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of this man and woman. An honorable institute, marriage is…”

Beatrice stopped listening. She’d heard plenty of wedding sermons before. In fact, the last one was Anna and Theodore’s. That had been a different wedding altogether. For one thing, it had attracted a good deal of attention, because Anna had very nearly married Theodore’s younger brother, Henry.

The three of them were friends, although Henry had briefly left the country shortly after. With his painter, no less. Beatrice had to smile at that.

I am glad Henry is happy. And Anna and Theodore are in love. Two out of three of us found happiness and love, at the very least. That isn’t terrible.

I wish Jane were here.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

A shoulder knocked roughly against hers, and her eyes flew open. The Marquess was leaning towards her, his breath sour and smelling of alcohol.

“If you’re thinking of fainting, don’t even try it,” he hissed. “If you embarrass me in public, I’ll see your father and your family ruined before I’m finished. Don’t cross me, woman.”

“You’ve already won,” she responded at once. “Why are you being so cruel? Why bother trying to grind me into the dirt?”

He only smiled grimly. “Like I said, we’ll start as we mean to go on. I don’t approve of women like you, Beatrice. I don’t want a bluestocking wife, and I don’t intend to have one. If I were you, I would turn over a new leaf from this very moment. Turn over a new leaf, or I’ll turn it over for you.”

Beatrice shivered, real fear taking hold, her chest tightening.

What have I done? What will my life be?

The vicar’s sermon was drawing to a close. Soon would come the vows, and then would come the official declaration. They would be married. The wedding breakfast would come and go, and then the Marquess would doubtless make sure they were properly married.

She felt sick again, and this time she wondered if she really was going to vomit. Beatrice hadn’t touched a morsel all day, but there was that tea…

The vicar paused, just for a moment, drawing in a breath. In that split-second of silence, a clear, cold voice cut through the air.

“I apologize for the interruption, vicar, but I believe I have something rather important to say.”

Everybody spun around, their eyes wide. Beatrice turned, even though she already knew exactly who it was. Really, that could only be his voice.

The Duke of Blackwood—who she was quite sure had not been in the audience a few minutes ago—was now standing in the middle of the aisle, his hands shoved in his pockets. Judging by the incredulous stares he was getting, he appeared to have materialized out of thin air.

The Marquess bit back a snarl. “You weren’t invited,” he snapped.

The Duke blinked slowly, like a cat. “And yet, here I am. I am terribly sorry, everyone, but this marriage absolutely cannot happen.”